I see that the unions in South Africa have refused to unload a ship full of ammo that was destined for Mugabe.
Jeez, they're stupid bastards. The ship is now sailing up the coast, and may well unload at a friendly port next door.
What they should have done was unload the cargo, then refuse to drive it anywhere. It would have then sat on the docks, going nowhere.
The unions have made a gesture, but it may turn out to be as futile as can be.
Sunday, 20 April 2008
Dual cab ambulances?
It appears that fatties are becoming a problem for the ambulance service in NSW - and the morgues as well.
Carrying an injured person on a stretcher is not easy. Doing casevac training in the Army Reserver was the one thing I really dreaded, since it usually involved carrying someone on a stretcher for kilometres - and carrying a stretcher is a bastard of a job.
We didn't have ready made stretchers with wheels or anything like that. What we had was a plastic groundsheet that had a tube down each side for the insertion of poles for carrying handles. The groundsheet was actually used for sleeping on at night (as the name implies), and the army sensibly adapated it for another use by making it capable of being a stretcher too.
We didn't carry poles with us. What we did carry was something like a machete or a small axe, and someone was given the job of chopping and trimming two small trees, or saplings, to make the poles (and quickly too). So what we would always end up with was two roughly cut poles of uneven size and weight and length, stuck into a groundsheet, and with no cross bracing between them. If you were lucky, the guy trimming the poles would de-bark the ends. If not, it was blister time. In fact, it was always blister time. I never did a casevac without getting a blister somewhere on my hand or wrist.
Thankfully, I served with a bunch of lightweight bastards. I was one of the big guys in my platoon (hence me being given the job of carrying the M60) and I only weighed about 70 kilos at the time. You carry no excess flesh in the Infantry - days of lugging heavy loads around the countryside will quickly burn off any flab that one might be carrying. But it meant that our casualties were not that bad in terms of weight. It was possible for four guys (one on each corner) to carry a stretcher at speed across miles of broken countryside.
We also had to lug the casualty's stuff as well - their rifle, webbing and all that sort of thing. As gunner, I was usually exempted from having to take a turn at carrying the stretcher, since I was already weighed down with a big heavy gun, extra ammo and stuff - and my job was to protect the guys lugging the load. However, it sometimes meant that I got to carry my stuff, plus the webbing of the casualty, plus his rifle slung over my back. Plus stuff that the stretcher bearers dumped on me, like the M72 and M79 and extra ammo.
Talk about mules. Very well armed mules.
And we didn't hang around when we carried a stretcher. The assumption was that the casualty had been caused by combat, which meant that bad guys were around still, so we bugged out at a pace just short of running. Plus, when you've been shot, it helps to get to medical attention as quickly as possible.
It's fucking hard work. Especially in summer. The drill would be that four guys would carry the stretcher a certain distance, then we'd swap it around - either swapping sides, or other guys taking over the heavy lifting. We'd collapse like dead men when we finally dropped the casualty off at the evacuation point.
So I can sympathise with ambos having to lift people onto a stretcher and say carry them down a flight of stairs, or up an embankment from a rolled car or something like that. It's a very physical job.
Carrying a big fat bastard would be a really nasty piece of work. One ambo on each corner would be the only way to go - and even then, you'd have to select guys that spend a lot of time in the gym. So are dual cab ambulances the way to go - so that you an have a crew of four for the really "big" jobs?
I know it's a silly idea, but it might come to that one day. Either that, or you get a pizza delivery company to drop off a stack of pizzas, but get them to leave them at the front gate. Fatties will presumably crawl on their hands and knees out the front door and across a lawn of broken glass to get to the pizzas.
Carrying an injured person on a stretcher is not easy. Doing casevac training in the Army Reserver was the one thing I really dreaded, since it usually involved carrying someone on a stretcher for kilometres - and carrying a stretcher is a bastard of a job.
We didn't have ready made stretchers with wheels or anything like that. What we had was a plastic groundsheet that had a tube down each side for the insertion of poles for carrying handles. The groundsheet was actually used for sleeping on at night (as the name implies), and the army sensibly adapated it for another use by making it capable of being a stretcher too.
We didn't carry poles with us. What we did carry was something like a machete or a small axe, and someone was given the job of chopping and trimming two small trees, or saplings, to make the poles (and quickly too). So what we would always end up with was two roughly cut poles of uneven size and weight and length, stuck into a groundsheet, and with no cross bracing between them. If you were lucky, the guy trimming the poles would de-bark the ends. If not, it was blister time. In fact, it was always blister time. I never did a casevac without getting a blister somewhere on my hand or wrist.
Thankfully, I served with a bunch of lightweight bastards. I was one of the big guys in my platoon (hence me being given the job of carrying the M60) and I only weighed about 70 kilos at the time. You carry no excess flesh in the Infantry - days of lugging heavy loads around the countryside will quickly burn off any flab that one might be carrying. But it meant that our casualties were not that bad in terms of weight. It was possible for four guys (one on each corner) to carry a stretcher at speed across miles of broken countryside.
We also had to lug the casualty's stuff as well - their rifle, webbing and all that sort of thing. As gunner, I was usually exempted from having to take a turn at carrying the stretcher, since I was already weighed down with a big heavy gun, extra ammo and stuff - and my job was to protect the guys lugging the load. However, it sometimes meant that I got to carry my stuff, plus the webbing of the casualty, plus his rifle slung over my back. Plus stuff that the stretcher bearers dumped on me, like the M72 and M79 and extra ammo.
Talk about mules. Very well armed mules.
And we didn't hang around when we carried a stretcher. The assumption was that the casualty had been caused by combat, which meant that bad guys were around still, so we bugged out at a pace just short of running. Plus, when you've been shot, it helps to get to medical attention as quickly as possible.
It's fucking hard work. Especially in summer. The drill would be that four guys would carry the stretcher a certain distance, then we'd swap it around - either swapping sides, or other guys taking over the heavy lifting. We'd collapse like dead men when we finally dropped the casualty off at the evacuation point.
So I can sympathise with ambos having to lift people onto a stretcher and say carry them down a flight of stairs, or up an embankment from a rolled car or something like that. It's a very physical job.
Carrying a big fat bastard would be a really nasty piece of work. One ambo on each corner would be the only way to go - and even then, you'd have to select guys that spend a lot of time in the gym. So are dual cab ambulances the way to go - so that you an have a crew of four for the really "big" jobs?
I know it's a silly idea, but it might come to that one day. Either that, or you get a pizza delivery company to drop off a stack of pizzas, but get them to leave them at the front gate. Fatties will presumably crawl on their hands and knees out the front door and across a lawn of broken glass to get to the pizzas.
Be careful what you wish for
So the Chinese Embassy is doing its best to organise protests to protect the Olympic flame, is it?
I'd say one thing to the embassy: "Be careful what you wish for".
Once these protesters get a taste of massing and protesting, they might want to start doing it when they get home. Except they might not be protesting about the things you want them to protest about.
It would be nice to think that leafy Canberra might be an incubator for the next Chinese revolution.
To the embassy - bring it on, I say. Bring it on.
I'd say one thing to the embassy: "Be careful what you wish for".
Once these protesters get a taste of massing and protesting, they might want to start doing it when they get home. Except they might not be protesting about the things you want them to protest about.
It would be nice to think that leafy Canberra might be an incubator for the next Chinese revolution.
To the embassy - bring it on, I say. Bring it on.
Saturday, 19 April 2008
Put a jellyfish on each foot
I finally figured out last night a good description for putting on wet shoes and socks at the end of the day for the ride home.
It's like pulling a large, wet jellyfish onto each foot.
Bear that in mind next time you see someone riding homewards in the rain.
It's like pulling a large, wet jellyfish onto each foot.
Bear that in mind next time you see someone riding homewards in the rain.
The stupidity of giving students laptops
As I was browsing today, I found this article on how a university is cracking down on students using laptops during lectures.
Here is the killer punchline:
“A great many conversations and classroom visits have generated the perception, and I think reality, that we have a growing problem in the form of the distractions presented by Internet surfing in the classroom,”
The university has cut off wireless access and disabled the wired network in the lecture theatres.
This doesn't bode well for Captain Bloodnut's plan to give all high school students a laptop. If uni students, who are older and more mature than high school students, can't be trusted not to fart around on their computers, then how will 15 year olds cope?
The little buggers will never pay attention to their teachers. Nice of the government to provide a billion dollar distraction to our kiddies.
Here is the killer punchline:
“A great many conversations and classroom visits have generated the perception, and I think reality, that we have a growing problem in the form of the distractions presented by Internet surfing in the classroom,”
The university has cut off wireless access and disabled the wired network in the lecture theatres.
This doesn't bode well for Captain Bloodnut's plan to give all high school students a laptop. If uni students, who are older and more mature than high school students, can't be trusted not to fart around on their computers, then how will 15 year olds cope?
The little buggers will never pay attention to their teachers. Nice of the government to provide a billion dollar distraction to our kiddies.
Tilt them heads!
I did an online survey tonight that asked my opinion of about 1000 TV "celebrities". Given the limited amount of idiot tube that I watch, I didn't recognise at least 50% of them. Of those that I did recognise, I discovered that I didn't like most of them.
Quite a few suffered from tilty-head syndrome.
I know this one works for the ABC, where I guess having a compassionate head tilt is de-riguer.
I have no idea who this woman is, but if her head tilts any further, it's going to fall off.
Got no idea who this one is either, but it appears her entire body is tilting to the left.
On the left, we have a major head tilt, and on the right, his head appears to be tilting forward. (Note to balding guys - do not get photographed from above. It just makes you look short and bald.)
Given the level of head tilt displayed here, I presume this lot got invited to the 20/20 summit. Personally, I would rather lick dog vomit off a wino's bum than watch the summit, let alone attend it.
Quite a few suffered from tilty-head syndrome.
I know this one works for the ABC, where I guess having a compassionate head tilt is de-riguer.
I have no idea who this woman is, but if her head tilts any further, it's going to fall off.
Got no idea who this one is either, but it appears her entire body is tilting to the left.
On the left, we have a major head tilt, and on the right, his head appears to be tilting forward. (Note to balding guys - do not get photographed from above. It just makes you look short and bald.)
Given the level of head tilt displayed here, I presume this lot got invited to the 20/20 summit. Personally, I would rather lick dog vomit off a wino's bum than watch the summit, let alone attend it.
Thursday, 17 April 2008
Creative nation, 2020 and all that crap
This to me sums up perfectly what our fucking "artists" are really like.
Cuddly on the outside, nasty little swearing fuckers on the inside.
Cate, you can take your demands for my tax dollars and shove it. Creative nation my arse.
Cuddly on the outside, nasty little swearing fuckers on the inside.
Cate, you can take your demands for my tax dollars and shove it. Creative nation my arse.
Eyebrows
What is an appropriate length for an eyebrow?
I've always thought that if they don't lie flat (ie, pokey-outey eyebrows), then they should be trimmed or plucked back into shape.
Even on men.
I ask this question because the other day, I was waiting to cross the road when I had a look at the bloke next to me.
You know how you occasionally see photos of some Indian dude with the longest moustache in the world, or the hairiest ears?
Well, this bloke was a sure fire candidate for a world record for eyebrow length. One of his eyebrow hairs started on one side of his eye and continued past the far side. It was enormous. So enormous, I did a double take and stared a bit longer than is polite just to make sure. It was not an errant hair that had fallen from his head and lodged above his eyes. This thing was growing out of his head.
It was beyond the plucking stage. He was seriously into the lawnmowing stage.
If I had reached over and yanked it out and then run away to show my friends, do you think I could have been charged with assault, or theft? Perhaps trafficking in inhuman body parts would have been more appropriate.
I've always thought that if they don't lie flat (ie, pokey-outey eyebrows), then they should be trimmed or plucked back into shape.
Even on men.
I ask this question because the other day, I was waiting to cross the road when I had a look at the bloke next to me.
You know how you occasionally see photos of some Indian dude with the longest moustache in the world, or the hairiest ears?
Well, this bloke was a sure fire candidate for a world record for eyebrow length. One of his eyebrow hairs started on one side of his eye and continued past the far side. It was enormous. So enormous, I did a double take and stared a bit longer than is polite just to make sure. It was not an errant hair that had fallen from his head and lodged above his eyes. This thing was growing out of his head.
It was beyond the plucking stage. He was seriously into the lawnmowing stage.
If I had reached over and yanked it out and then run away to show my friends, do you think I could have been charged with assault, or theft? Perhaps trafficking in inhuman body parts would have been more appropriate.
Rain, rain, rain
Developing sufficient enthusiasm to pull on the togs and ride in the morning has become something of a challenge. I get up, look out the window, and see a world of grey and gloom. And often that world is wet.
I console myself by riding along bike paths next to major arterials like the City West Link and looking at the drivers going past and thinking, "I am so much tougher than you. I make Bruce Willis look like a girl".
Trust me - it makes me feel better when rain is pouring off my helmet and running both up and down my nose and my feet are soaked and... you get the general idea. If riding in the rain was exceptionally pleasurable, then the paths would be packed with sodden cyclists. But given that I saw only a handful of people walking, running or riding today, I will assume that most people don't relish it that much.
The worst of it is getting ready for the ride home. Clothes and shoes and socks never properly drip dry in the change room at work, so one has to pull on damp and icky clothes. I don't mind a wet shirt. Wet gloves are not an issue. Wet knicks are not that great, but I just can't accept wet socks. If I have half a functioning brain cell in the morning, I throw a spare pair into my back pack, but most days the sit at home forgotten, and I am stuck with pulling on soaking socks.
Yuck.
The weather is a fickle thing too. One morning, it was bright and clear at home, so I considered taking off my jacket halfway into town. 10 seconds later, it was pouring down. Same on the way home. I rugged up before leaving the office, only to emerge from the underground car park into bright sunshine. Just as I thought about taking off my jacket, the heavens opened.
I will have to name my jacket "Thor".
I console myself by riding along bike paths next to major arterials like the City West Link and looking at the drivers going past and thinking, "I am so much tougher than you. I make Bruce Willis look like a girl".
Trust me - it makes me feel better when rain is pouring off my helmet and running both up and down my nose and my feet are soaked and... you get the general idea. If riding in the rain was exceptionally pleasurable, then the paths would be packed with sodden cyclists. But given that I saw only a handful of people walking, running or riding today, I will assume that most people don't relish it that much.
The worst of it is getting ready for the ride home. Clothes and shoes and socks never properly drip dry in the change room at work, so one has to pull on damp and icky clothes. I don't mind a wet shirt. Wet gloves are not an issue. Wet knicks are not that great, but I just can't accept wet socks. If I have half a functioning brain cell in the morning, I throw a spare pair into my back pack, but most days the sit at home forgotten, and I am stuck with pulling on soaking socks.
Yuck.
The weather is a fickle thing too. One morning, it was bright and clear at home, so I considered taking off my jacket halfway into town. 10 seconds later, it was pouring down. Same on the way home. I rugged up before leaving the office, only to emerge from the underground car park into bright sunshine. Just as I thought about taking off my jacket, the heavens opened.
I will have to name my jacket "Thor".
Oh for crying out loud!
The council recently resurfaced a bit of road that I cycle along regularly, and before they ripped up the tarmac and replaced it, they had to clear the road of parked cars.
There is one car along there that hasn't moved in about a year - the rego on this thing ran out in February, and someone from the council turned up not long afterwards and stuck a "we're towing this away" sticker on it.
I figured that the car would have been towed away a few weeks ago, but the 30 day warning limit came and went, and the car didn't move.
Typical council planning and lack of internal communications. The resurfacing of this road would have been planned months ago, so it's not like it was a surprise to anyone at council when the trucks full of black goo started turning up one morning.
Given that council rangers are responsible for towing things like this pike of crap, and they work for the same council that is responsible for the road works, you'd think they could put two and two together and tow the car away before the roadworks began.
Er, no. They couldn't.
You might notice that the rear quarter window is broken - I presume one of the roadworkers smashed the window to get into the car to let off the handbrake etc, and they just pushed it across the road into the bowling club carpark.
Now the bowling club has a problem. Lucky them.
There is one car along there that hasn't moved in about a year - the rego on this thing ran out in February, and someone from the council turned up not long afterwards and stuck a "we're towing this away" sticker on it.
I figured that the car would have been towed away a few weeks ago, but the 30 day warning limit came and went, and the car didn't move.
Typical council planning and lack of internal communications. The resurfacing of this road would have been planned months ago, so it's not like it was a surprise to anyone at council when the trucks full of black goo started turning up one morning.
Given that council rangers are responsible for towing things like this pike of crap, and they work for the same council that is responsible for the road works, you'd think they could put two and two together and tow the car away before the roadworks began.
Er, no. They couldn't.
You might notice that the rear quarter window is broken - I presume one of the roadworkers smashed the window to get into the car to let off the handbrake etc, and they just pushed it across the road into the bowling club carpark.
Now the bowling club has a problem. Lucky them.
Knee deep in seagull shit
Ever wonder where all the seagulls hang out?
Here's one likely spot - the old swing bridge under the Anzac bridge. How many seagulls do you reckon are perched on there? 500?
Here's one likely spot - the old swing bridge under the Anzac bridge. How many seagulls do you reckon are perched on there? 500?
Tuesday, 15 April 2008
No more Cadbury factory tours
It's a great pity that the likes of us will no longer be able to tour the Cadbury factory in Hobart. I was down that way some years ago, and did the tour. After reading several books on the chocolate industry, including The Emperors of Chocolate and a couple of others that are still on my bookshelf, I just had to see a conching machine in action for myself. Seriously, I could have spent all day in the conching room just smelling the chocolate.
I love chocolate that is 70% cocoa or more, which is why I thought the conching room smelt so good. It is what chocolate smells like before it is completely fucked up by the addition of sugar and milk and all that other stuff.
The safety nazis have intervened once more to wreck something that was once available to the paying public. Cadbury are citing OH&S as a reason for stopping the tours - I guess they don't want the hassle of someone being sucked into the Turkish Delight machinery. Yes, you do get to stand next to big bits of equipment that whirr and stamp and buzz and do other things, but reasonably sensible adults stand back from things that look like they will take your arm off, and they keep the kiddies back as well.
Fucking safety nazis.
Oh, whilst we are on the subject of safety nazis, I will believe that the govt is getting serious about obesity when a Big Mac costs ten bucks and a can of Coke costs five. The govt has been bleating about obesity for some years now, and we keep on getting fatter. If they want to do something about it, short of sticking us all into fat camps, they are simply going to have to do to junk food and its ilk what they did to cigarettes - tax the crap out of them.
Are cigarettes horribly expensive? Yes.
Are people smoking less? Yes.
Except for blackfellas of course. They are still smoking like chimneys.
I love chocolate that is 70% cocoa or more, which is why I thought the conching room smelt so good. It is what chocolate smells like before it is completely fucked up by the addition of sugar and milk and all that other stuff.
The safety nazis have intervened once more to wreck something that was once available to the paying public. Cadbury are citing OH&S as a reason for stopping the tours - I guess they don't want the hassle of someone being sucked into the Turkish Delight machinery. Yes, you do get to stand next to big bits of equipment that whirr and stamp and buzz and do other things, but reasonably sensible adults stand back from things that look like they will take your arm off, and they keep the kiddies back as well.
Fucking safety nazis.
Oh, whilst we are on the subject of safety nazis, I will believe that the govt is getting serious about obesity when a Big Mac costs ten bucks and a can of Coke costs five. The govt has been bleating about obesity for some years now, and we keep on getting fatter. If they want to do something about it, short of sticking us all into fat camps, they are simply going to have to do to junk food and its ilk what they did to cigarettes - tax the crap out of them.
Are cigarettes horribly expensive? Yes.
Are people smoking less? Yes.
Except for blackfellas of course. They are still smoking like chimneys.
Too damn hot or too bloody cold
We're in that horrible in-between time with the weather where it's not cold enough to really rug up, but not warm enough to walk around in shorts and thongs.
I find it annoying because when riding, I have a choice between wearing a thin, ultrabreathable shirt that is marvelous for wicking away sweat and keeping me cool (but leaves me open to freezing when the temperature drops), or pulling on a lovely shower-proof jacket that is wonderfully toasty and warm when the thermometer is around 10, but cooks my nipples when it's not.
I lack a suitable "in between" set of clothing. Being a manly sort of man, I could of course ride off in the morning in just a short sleeved shirt and say "bugger the cold", but down that road lies chest infections and all sorts of nasty results. So I put on the nice, warm toasty thing, and arrive at work a sweaty mess - even though I pass people walking around in scarves and mittens.
I just wish it would hurry up and get properly cold. This farting around with Autumn is killing me.
I find it annoying because when riding, I have a choice between wearing a thin, ultrabreathable shirt that is marvelous for wicking away sweat and keeping me cool (but leaves me open to freezing when the temperature drops), or pulling on a lovely shower-proof jacket that is wonderfully toasty and warm when the thermometer is around 10, but cooks my nipples when it's not.
I lack a suitable "in between" set of clothing. Being a manly sort of man, I could of course ride off in the morning in just a short sleeved shirt and say "bugger the cold", but down that road lies chest infections and all sorts of nasty results. So I put on the nice, warm toasty thing, and arrive at work a sweaty mess - even though I pass people walking around in scarves and mittens.
I just wish it would hurry up and get properly cold. This farting around with Autumn is killing me.
Monday, 14 April 2008
Blackfive
I like to have a look at Blackfive every day, and I suggest you do the same.
Big things are happening in Iraq and Afghanistan. Lots of shooting is involved. Who would you trust to report it properly? People who moonlight as theatre critics, or people who know which end of a gun bullets come out of?
Blackfive. Read it often.
Big things are happening in Iraq and Afghanistan. Lots of shooting is involved. Who would you trust to report it properly? People who moonlight as theatre critics, or people who know which end of a gun bullets come out of?
Blackfive. Read it often.
Blogroll
I keep on meaning to add more blogs to my bogroll, but can't be shagged. Too bloody difficult. Stupid bloody process involves farting around with templates, and although I have been fiddling with HTML since before Sausage Software introduced an editor, I dread the thought of messing with anything that involves code these days. Especially when bogger does not seem to have a button marked "backup" and another marked "restore".
You'll just have to take my word for it that I read other blogs.
Sausage does take me back though... back to the days before Frontpage and Cold Fusion and all those other tricky thingys that I never got around to learning about. The first web sites that I did, which were the corporate internet and intranet web sites for the company that I worked for, were all initially done by writing code using notepad. Talk about primitive. That's like telling someone with a $15,000 BBQ that you cook your meals by rubbing two sticks together in the backyard until something called "fire" develops.
This was back in the day when a corporation of 10,000+ employees could get by on an internet link of 64k. And boy, did management take some convincing that an ISDN line and router were required.
But back to the blogs. It's funny that all the ones that I like are the angry type - blogging really does shit all over newspaper opinion columns, and it does so for the simple reason that bloggers can really get it off their chests.
Don't believe me? Try the Devil's Kitchen - one of my favourites. Just don't let the kiddies near it.
You'll just have to take my word for it that I read other blogs.
Sausage does take me back though... back to the days before Frontpage and Cold Fusion and all those other tricky thingys that I never got around to learning about. The first web sites that I did, which were the corporate internet and intranet web sites for the company that I worked for, were all initially done by writing code using notepad. Talk about primitive. That's like telling someone with a $15,000 BBQ that you cook your meals by rubbing two sticks together in the backyard until something called "fire" develops.
This was back in the day when a corporation of 10,000+ employees could get by on an internet link of 64k. And boy, did management take some convincing that an ISDN line and router were required.
But back to the blogs. It's funny that all the ones that I like are the angry type - blogging really does shit all over newspaper opinion columns, and it does so for the simple reason that bloggers can really get it off their chests.
Don't believe me? Try the Devil's Kitchen - one of my favourites. Just don't let the kiddies near it.
Eeek. It's getting cold
By getting cold, I mean it is getting down to around 12-13 degrees Celsius in the mornings, which might be a beautiful sunny day in Canberra terms, but it's bloody freezing as far as my thin blood is concerned.
Hence my desire to wear leggings on my morning rides. Some may call them leg warmers, but to me, that sounds much too much like Flashdance. They are simply two tubes of Lycra lined with a bit of warm stuff. You pull them up the leg and tuck them under the shorts so that they stay in place - at least that's what I do. I've never seen anyone wearing them with suspenders, so I just have to assume that I've got it right. For all I know, more knowledgeable riders are going past, zipping around a corner and bursting out laughing at my at ire.
The important thing is that they keep my kneecaps and quads from icing up, which is a good thing. So I don't go out without them if I can help it.
I was supposed to be in the saddle before dawn this morning, but I couldn't find the bloody leg warmers. I searched high and low, and could only rustle up one of them. I figured I would have to wait until daylight to be able to search the place without waking everyone else up.
About 1 minute after dawn, a thought struck me. My backpack has two internal pockets. The first place I had looked was the backpack (since that is where they should be), but I had not checked both internal buckets.
And there it was - in the second pocket. I had to keep my cursing down to a minimum, also to ensure that I didn't wake everyone else up. But as soon as I was a few blocks away, I'm sure I woke a few people up.
Not happy Jan.
Hence my desire to wear leggings on my morning rides. Some may call them leg warmers, but to me, that sounds much too much like Flashdance. They are simply two tubes of Lycra lined with a bit of warm stuff. You pull them up the leg and tuck them under the shorts so that they stay in place - at least that's what I do. I've never seen anyone wearing them with suspenders, so I just have to assume that I've got it right. For all I know, more knowledgeable riders are going past, zipping around a corner and bursting out laughing at my at ire.
The important thing is that they keep my kneecaps and quads from icing up, which is a good thing. So I don't go out without them if I can help it.
I was supposed to be in the saddle before dawn this morning, but I couldn't find the bloody leg warmers. I searched high and low, and could only rustle up one of them. I figured I would have to wait until daylight to be able to search the place without waking everyone else up.
About 1 minute after dawn, a thought struck me. My backpack has two internal pockets. The first place I had looked was the backpack (since that is where they should be), but I had not checked both internal buckets.
And there it was - in the second pocket. I had to keep my cursing down to a minimum, also to ensure that I didn't wake everyone else up. But as soon as I was a few blocks away, I'm sure I woke a few people up.
Not happy Jan.
Sunday, 13 April 2008
Wet, useless shit
Seriously, if the SMH was any wetter, it would be a dishrag. I can't find a link to it, but in the weekend edition, they had a photo of a drawing from some kids summit somewhere. It was your typically childish drawing, with modern slogans plastered all over it. One called for the obligatory water tank to be imposed on every backyard, another wanted the end of coal mining and the last was a cracker - "higher pay for farmers".
How the SMH can print shite like that with a straight face and call it news is beyond me.
Farmers do not get paid a wage or salary. Farmers get paid for what they grow, they deduct the costs of growing it, and what they end up with is commonly known as a "profit". No, I am not referring to Al Gore. He is a prophet, generally of doom.
There are several ways for farmers to make more money.
One is for them to get bigger, thus growing their income base. But since the supply of arable land is finite, that generally involves buying someone else out, which means a family leaving the land. I'm ok with that, since it beats what happened when my mum's family left the land in around 1930-something. It was called a "Depression" and they lost the lot. Being given a million bucks by your neighbour is quite a nice option if you ask me.
But how the SMH would moan at the prospect of that happening! Tears would be shed for dying towns, banks would be accused of nastiness for closing branches in desolate rural centres, and sob stories would be printed on acres of newsprint bemoaning the distances that kiddies have to travel to school.
But you can't have one without the other.
Another option is to drive down costs. A good way to do that is to import cheap labour from places like Afghanistan and Somalia and the Phillipines and pay them two peanuts and a banana a day.
Oops, can't do that either. Bastards. If you do that, farmers get accused of exploitation.
The last way is to increase the price of what you sell. But everytime the price of a litre of milk or a loaf of bread goes up, the SMH goes ballistic.
Just what the fuck is it that you want? Are these fucking people living with Zebedee on the Magic Roundabout? They're certainly smoking whatever it is that Dougal is on.
How the SMH can print shite like that with a straight face and call it news is beyond me.
Farmers do not get paid a wage or salary. Farmers get paid for what they grow, they deduct the costs of growing it, and what they end up with is commonly known as a "profit". No, I am not referring to Al Gore. He is a prophet, generally of doom.
There are several ways for farmers to make more money.
One is for them to get bigger, thus growing their income base. But since the supply of arable land is finite, that generally involves buying someone else out, which means a family leaving the land. I'm ok with that, since it beats what happened when my mum's family left the land in around 1930-something. It was called a "Depression" and they lost the lot. Being given a million bucks by your neighbour is quite a nice option if you ask me.
But how the SMH would moan at the prospect of that happening! Tears would be shed for dying towns, banks would be accused of nastiness for closing branches in desolate rural centres, and sob stories would be printed on acres of newsprint bemoaning the distances that kiddies have to travel to school.
But you can't have one without the other.
Another option is to drive down costs. A good way to do that is to import cheap labour from places like Afghanistan and Somalia and the Phillipines and pay them two peanuts and a banana a day.
Oops, can't do that either. Bastards. If you do that, farmers get accused of exploitation.
The last way is to increase the price of what you sell. But everytime the price of a litre of milk or a loaf of bread goes up, the SMH goes ballistic.
Just what the fuck is it that you want? Are these fucking people living with Zebedee on the Magic Roundabout? They're certainly smoking whatever it is that Dougal is on.
Working port
A car carrier being worked away from the wharf. See if you can work out where I have retouched this photo.
Saturday, 12 April 2008
Speculators, journalists and other filth
Why do I read the SMH? Is it because I want to tear all my hair out in frustration? Or get my blood pressure raised to new heights? Perhaps I have masochistic Mosley-like fantasies about being whipped by Nazis?
I think I read it because when I sit down at a cafe for breakfast, it's usually sitting there on the table in front of me. I can't remember ever paying for a copy. I'd prefer to light my BBQ with fifty dollar notes than give those wankers money.
Today was a case in point. The silly ran a story on developers which was more one eyed than a pub full of cyclops's.
Get a load of this paragraph:
Mr Brown was most concerned about a proposal by the land speculator Hardie Holdings to build a new town called Sweetwater, at Branxton. In a 2006 assessment, planners rated it last out of 91 potential development sites for the Lower Hunter. It was not well served by transport and was 20 kilometres from the nearest urban centre, Maitland.
What's the deal with using the word "speculator"? Why not call Mr Hardie a property developer, which is what he is after all. "Speculator" of course has all sorts of nasty connotations, especially for the kind of people that read the Green Lefty. Speculators are people that make money by doing nothing in their world. Fucking tools. Where do they think all our houses and apartments come from? Built by pixies perhaps in the middle of the night? If it wasn't for property developers, we'd all be living in tents.
Speculators my red, blistered arse.
It gets worse.
Mr Brown said 700 new dwellings to be built at Crangan Bay, on Lake Macquarie, were "excessive in scale and inappropriately located" and Rose Group's 60-hectare proposal at Catherine Hill Bay would "overwhelm the heritage and other unique qualities of this tiny village". More than 900 houses were proposed for Catherine Hill Bay, of which 600 belonged to the Rose Group development.
Mr Brown can kiss my toot. This sounds to me like a pack of NIMBYs trying to keep other people out of their precious little enclave. Sorry, but get fucked. If you want to have no neighbours around you, buy up all the surrounding property and keep it empty. But don't go crying when the legal owner of the land next to you decides to chop it up and plant houses on it. It's not your fucking land, so fuck off.
The Silly then goes on to report this:
As early as March 2005 the Minister for the Hunter, Michael Costa, told a meeting of town planners that strategic planning was a waste of time. According to those attending, he said he favoured the Government putting in infrastructure and letting the market decide where to develop.
As if that's a bad thing! I think I am starting to like Costa. We might be better off if he gives Iemma a shove and takes over as Premier.
I could go on all night, but this related article is even worse.
Let me paraphrase why the "journalists" that wrote these articles are a pack of useless bastards.
To start with, they think that sprawl is a bad thing. Yet these are the same people that complain about rents going up and house prices being unaffordable. Fuck, maybe rents and house prices are rising because stupid fucking wankers are getting in the way of new housing being built! And when a development finally grinds its way through the planning system, it's cost a bomb to get it processed and that cost of course has to be loaded into the price that the homebuyers have to pay. On top of that, the enormous cost of even simple developments helps to drive out small developers, who don't have deep enough pockets to put up with all the NIMBY bullshit put in their way.
Paragraphs like this shit me to tears:
YOU only have to look at Duncan Hardie's sprawling faux Spanish villa in the Hunter's wine district to know this is a man who thinks big. Sweetwater Ridge is the realisation of the ultimate dream home for the chairman and founder of Hardie Holdings. Sweetwater was also the name the 57-year-old New Zealand-born speculator gave to another unlikely dream, a new city of 28,000 homes for 59,000 people, with a university and commercial centre thrown in.
"Sprawling faux Spanish villa" - a phrase that just screams "pleb with bad taste" and "greedy bastard with too much money". Fucking jealous little twats, these journalists.
"New Zealand-born speculator" - how about calling him a "succesful immigrant entrepreneur". If he was a woman from Somalia who was opening an organic hemp weaving mill, they'd never dare to use a phrase like that. But I guess you can slag off at kiwis, since they are white people who speak English.
It gets worse.
Michael Costa, addressed a meeting of planners at a pub in Merewether and told the head of the Newcastle planning office, Steve Brown, just what he thought of his policies. In a bare-knuckle speech, he said Mr Brown with his pro-planning attitude would not last long in his job, that strategic planning was a waste of time, that planners were "obsessed with urban villages" and planners were too fixated on public transport because people liked to drive.
"Urban villages" - a lovely theory bandied about my academics, and the current buzz-phrase in planning circles. But it's a crock of shit. I've been to a number of urban villages around the world, and they have one thing in common. They are all unplanned. You can't centrally plan a village - they either spring up organically or they don't. Planners have a nerve to think that they can mould human actions and change human nature by painting a few coloured blotches on a map. Wankers, the lot of them.
Costa of course is talking common sense - "people like to drive". Well, duh. If planners have to be told that, they should all be taken out and shot.
There is a line somewhere in one of these articles about the horror of building a housing development of 7000 dwellings in an area "some distance from shops". Well, smack me over the head with a frying pan, but last time I looked, if someone smacked 20,000 consumers down in a paddock, it would not be long before the market did its thing and a whole host of shops sprang up nearby to cater to them. The idea that a development like this would fail to attract a newsagent, chemist, GP surgery, petrol station, cafe, baker, butcher etc etc etc is just too daft for words.
Think about it - next time you are out in the country, pull into a country town like Junee or Orange or Dubbo and have a look at all the businesses that have been drawn in by the population. Last time I was in Dubbo, I found that it had even attracted an excellent Thai restaurant.
Aaaaaarrgggggh! These fucking people shit me! They have no brains at all.
I think I read it because when I sit down at a cafe for breakfast, it's usually sitting there on the table in front of me. I can't remember ever paying for a copy. I'd prefer to light my BBQ with fifty dollar notes than give those wankers money.
Today was a case in point. The silly ran a story on developers which was more one eyed than a pub full of cyclops's.
Get a load of this paragraph:
Mr Brown was most concerned about a proposal by the land speculator Hardie Holdings to build a new town called Sweetwater, at Branxton. In a 2006 assessment, planners rated it last out of 91 potential development sites for the Lower Hunter. It was not well served by transport and was 20 kilometres from the nearest urban centre, Maitland.
What's the deal with using the word "speculator"? Why not call Mr Hardie a property developer, which is what he is after all. "Speculator" of course has all sorts of nasty connotations, especially for the kind of people that read the Green Lefty. Speculators are people that make money by doing nothing in their world. Fucking tools. Where do they think all our houses and apartments come from? Built by pixies perhaps in the middle of the night? If it wasn't for property developers, we'd all be living in tents.
Speculators my red, blistered arse.
It gets worse.
Mr Brown said 700 new dwellings to be built at Crangan Bay, on Lake Macquarie, were "excessive in scale and inappropriately located" and Rose Group's 60-hectare proposal at Catherine Hill Bay would "overwhelm the heritage and other unique qualities of this tiny village". More than 900 houses were proposed for Catherine Hill Bay, of which 600 belonged to the Rose Group development.
Mr Brown can kiss my toot. This sounds to me like a pack of NIMBYs trying to keep other people out of their precious little enclave. Sorry, but get fucked. If you want to have no neighbours around you, buy up all the surrounding property and keep it empty. But don't go crying when the legal owner of the land next to you decides to chop it up and plant houses on it. It's not your fucking land, so fuck off.
The Silly then goes on to report this:
As early as March 2005 the Minister for the Hunter, Michael Costa, told a meeting of town planners that strategic planning was a waste of time. According to those attending, he said he favoured the Government putting in infrastructure and letting the market decide where to develop.
As if that's a bad thing! I think I am starting to like Costa. We might be better off if he gives Iemma a shove and takes over as Premier.
I could go on all night, but this related article is even worse.
Let me paraphrase why the "journalists" that wrote these articles are a pack of useless bastards.
To start with, they think that sprawl is a bad thing. Yet these are the same people that complain about rents going up and house prices being unaffordable. Fuck, maybe rents and house prices are rising because stupid fucking wankers are getting in the way of new housing being built! And when a development finally grinds its way through the planning system, it's cost a bomb to get it processed and that cost of course has to be loaded into the price that the homebuyers have to pay. On top of that, the enormous cost of even simple developments helps to drive out small developers, who don't have deep enough pockets to put up with all the NIMBY bullshit put in their way.
Paragraphs like this shit me to tears:
YOU only have to look at Duncan Hardie's sprawling faux Spanish villa in the Hunter's wine district to know this is a man who thinks big. Sweetwater Ridge is the realisation of the ultimate dream home for the chairman and founder of Hardie Holdings. Sweetwater was also the name the 57-year-old New Zealand-born speculator gave to another unlikely dream, a new city of 28,000 homes for 59,000 people, with a university and commercial centre thrown in.
"Sprawling faux Spanish villa" - a phrase that just screams "pleb with bad taste" and "greedy bastard with too much money". Fucking jealous little twats, these journalists.
"New Zealand-born speculator" - how about calling him a "succesful immigrant entrepreneur". If he was a woman from Somalia who was opening an organic hemp weaving mill, they'd never dare to use a phrase like that. But I guess you can slag off at kiwis, since they are white people who speak English.
It gets worse.
Michael Costa, addressed a meeting of planners at a pub in Merewether and told the head of the Newcastle planning office, Steve Brown, just what he thought of his policies. In a bare-knuckle speech, he said Mr Brown with his pro-planning attitude would not last long in his job, that strategic planning was a waste of time, that planners were "obsessed with urban villages" and planners were too fixated on public transport because people liked to drive.
"Urban villages" - a lovely theory bandied about my academics, and the current buzz-phrase in planning circles. But it's a crock of shit. I've been to a number of urban villages around the world, and they have one thing in common. They are all unplanned. You can't centrally plan a village - they either spring up organically or they don't. Planners have a nerve to think that they can mould human actions and change human nature by painting a few coloured blotches on a map. Wankers, the lot of them.
Costa of course is talking common sense - "people like to drive". Well, duh. If planners have to be told that, they should all be taken out and shot.
There is a line somewhere in one of these articles about the horror of building a housing development of 7000 dwellings in an area "some distance from shops". Well, smack me over the head with a frying pan, but last time I looked, if someone smacked 20,000 consumers down in a paddock, it would not be long before the market did its thing and a whole host of shops sprang up nearby to cater to them. The idea that a development like this would fail to attract a newsagent, chemist, GP surgery, petrol station, cafe, baker, butcher etc etc etc is just too daft for words.
Think about it - next time you are out in the country, pull into a country town like Junee or Orange or Dubbo and have a look at all the businesses that have been drawn in by the population. Last time I was in Dubbo, I found that it had even attracted an excellent Thai restaurant.
Aaaaaarrgggggh! These fucking people shit me! They have no brains at all.
Masons
Who would have thunk it? A masonic hall in the middle of Five Dock.
I must have ridden, driven, bused and walked past this place for a year before I finally noticed the masonic symbols above the door.
I haven't seen any men in aprons, or headless goats, so I guess it must be pretty inactive these days.
I must have ridden, driven, bused and walked past this place for a year before I finally noticed the masonic symbols above the door.
I haven't seen any men in aprons, or headless goats, so I guess it must be pretty inactive these days.
Friday, 11 April 2008
Diddly squat
My legs are rooted.
Just totally rooted.
How rooted?
Well, they are only capable of supporting my body when I am standing straight up. When I bend them, as in when I go to sit down, they collapse underneath me with an alarming lack of warning. I went to sit on the bogger today and almost ended up crashing through the seat, because they just failed utterly and down I went in a big hurry.
There are two possible things to blame. One is my chase earlier this week of the red topped bastard, but I don't think that is the culprit. I have chased many fast riders before, and never suffered like this.
No, I think the blame can be sheeted home to work. I am currently doing this job that involves a lot of squatting (no, I am not training to be a Sumo wrestler), and I reckon I did at least 100 squats one day. And not just little drop the bum a bit squats, but squats that take you all the way down to floor level. At my age, that's just not on. When I started doing it, the knees protested (shrieked is probably a better word), but they soon got over it. Or I stopped having any feeling below my waist. Now it's my quads and hamstrings that have gone.
Those of you that drive to work, or take the bus or train or ferry are probably worried about things like traffic, getting a seat, roadworks and whether to stop for petrol on the way to work or the way home. Me, I have to worry about whether my quads are about to detach from my femur, because that's what it feels like somedays. I have to take it really easy from time to time because my leg muscles feel particularly fragile, and I know that if I jam it along a bit too hard, I'll be lying on the side of the road with a torn muscle. Something not to be contemplated.
Just totally rooted.
How rooted?
Well, they are only capable of supporting my body when I am standing straight up. When I bend them, as in when I go to sit down, they collapse underneath me with an alarming lack of warning. I went to sit on the bogger today and almost ended up crashing through the seat, because they just failed utterly and down I went in a big hurry.
There are two possible things to blame. One is my chase earlier this week of the red topped bastard, but I don't think that is the culprit. I have chased many fast riders before, and never suffered like this.
No, I think the blame can be sheeted home to work. I am currently doing this job that involves a lot of squatting (no, I am not training to be a Sumo wrestler), and I reckon I did at least 100 squats one day. And not just little drop the bum a bit squats, but squats that take you all the way down to floor level. At my age, that's just not on. When I started doing it, the knees protested (shrieked is probably a better word), but they soon got over it. Or I stopped having any feeling below my waist. Now it's my quads and hamstrings that have gone.
Those of you that drive to work, or take the bus or train or ferry are probably worried about things like traffic, getting a seat, roadworks and whether to stop for petrol on the way to work or the way home. Me, I have to worry about whether my quads are about to detach from my femur, because that's what it feels like somedays. I have to take it really easy from time to time because my leg muscles feel particularly fragile, and I know that if I jam it along a bit too hard, I'll be lying on the side of the road with a torn muscle. Something not to be contemplated.
The horrors of security software
Our happy household has a number of computers that range in age from 6 months to about 5 years, and they contain a mix of anti-virus and internet security software. I think all the major vendors of anti-viral muck are represented on the desk in front of me.
If I was half sensible, I'd standardise on a single package for the lot and do away with the jumble of crap that we have, because I have found that modern "security" packages are the most confusing collections of shit known to man. We have four flavours of firewall, all of which are so impenetrably difficult to comprehend that most of the features are turned off. The oldest PC has become so slow since the latest version was loaded that it s almost unuseable. Security scans take hours.
I got jack of it this week and removed the "fully featured" package from my laptop and installed just a bare bones anti-virus setup. All the additional firewall crap and phishing stuff and kiddie friendly garbage has been removed. Funnily enough, the thing seems to run a bit faster now, and I have gone an entire week without swearing at it.
I have come to the conclusion that installing these software packages is like attaching leeches to your testicles in order to ward of evil humours. Sometimes, the idea of having more and more of something (like leeches) is not a good thing. From now on, I am going to make do with less.
If I was half sensible, I'd standardise on a single package for the lot and do away with the jumble of crap that we have, because I have found that modern "security" packages are the most confusing collections of shit known to man. We have four flavours of firewall, all of which are so impenetrably difficult to comprehend that most of the features are turned off. The oldest PC has become so slow since the latest version was loaded that it s almost unuseable. Security scans take hours.
I got jack of it this week and removed the "fully featured" package from my laptop and installed just a bare bones anti-virus setup. All the additional firewall crap and phishing stuff and kiddie friendly garbage has been removed. Funnily enough, the thing seems to run a bit faster now, and I have gone an entire week without swearing at it.
I have come to the conclusion that installing these software packages is like attaching leeches to your testicles in order to ward of evil humours. Sometimes, the idea of having more and more of something (like leeches) is not a good thing. From now on, I am going to make do with less.
Snot
I have been suffering from a bad case of snot this week. Not clear, runny mucus. Instead, I have been subjected to the full-blown green horror variety. Thick and lumpy and stickier than blu-tac.
The funny thing is that I don't have the flu, or a fever, or a lung infection of any sort. I just blow out a lump of snot from each nostril every morning, and cough up a handful of bright green goo.... and that's it. No more coughing, sneezing or snotting for the rest of the day - just the early morning lung clearing variety.
Talk about weird. I haven't smoked (regularly) for about 20 years. The air pollution doesn't seem that bad at present. I don't detect any obvious pollen floating about. I am simply producing a throat full of green goo per morning.
When it started, I thought I'd be off the bike for a week or two, recovering from some nasty lurgee, but the lurgee is yet to arrive (touch wood). I've woken up each morning, had a hack, cough and snort, pulled on the wet weather gear and gone. No fever. No shakes. Not even a runny nose.
I don't know what is going on, but it's a weird start to winter.
The funny thing is that I don't have the flu, or a fever, or a lung infection of any sort. I just blow out a lump of snot from each nostril every morning, and cough up a handful of bright green goo.... and that's it. No more coughing, sneezing or snotting for the rest of the day - just the early morning lung clearing variety.
Talk about weird. I haven't smoked (regularly) for about 20 years. The air pollution doesn't seem that bad at present. I don't detect any obvious pollen floating about. I am simply producing a throat full of green goo per morning.
When it started, I thought I'd be off the bike for a week or two, recovering from some nasty lurgee, but the lurgee is yet to arrive (touch wood). I've woken up each morning, had a hack, cough and snort, pulled on the wet weather gear and gone. No fever. No shakes. Not even a runny nose.
I don't know what is going on, but it's a weird start to winter.
Thursday, 10 April 2008
Try and avoid the tram
I have this thing about following the tram tracks into town.
Which tram tracks?
Well, given that Sydney only has one set of tram tracks at present, it should be pretty easy to figure out the ones I am talking about.
Given the shortage of trams in Sydney compared to say, Melbourne, you can understand the state of utter confusion that some drivers are reduced to when they suddenly find themselves confronted by a small train coming down the street at them. If you drive around all day and see cars, buses, trucks, motorbikes and endless traffic jams, it is quite normal to be reduced to incoherent shock by the sight of something that is not running on 2, 4, 6 or 18 rubber wheels.
At least that is my theory for why some drivers are complete fucking idiots when placed in the vicinity of these tram tracks.
The best thing about following a tram is that it clears a path for you. Pesky pedestrians (at least those that want to keep their arms and legs attached to their body) get out of the way. Cars tend to stop. Even buses and taxis don't dare mess with a tram, so I tuck in behind them (not too close - I don't want to eat the back of one when an errant taxi swerves in front of one and causes the brakes to go on hard) and breeze across town from west to east, or east to west if I am on the way home.
Some people just don't get this whole concept of "stay out of the way of the trams".
There I am, cruising into town a few days ago (in the pissing rain) and I can see that I have a clear run across a set of lights because a tram is coming the other way. That means the lights to the left and right of the intersection will be red, and cars will be no go-ey. Cars no-go. Cars stay put. Cars do not pass go and collect $200.
So I am happy and content and soaking wet and about to go through the intersection when this tool comes through the intersection from my left - and heads straight for the side of the tram! Now a tram is a big thing - it is perhaps taller than a bus, and longer than a semi trailer, so you'd expect most people to be able to see them from some distance. But not this cretin. He kept on heading towards it until (duh) he suddenly noticed it at the last moment and swerved...
...right at me. He must have scraped the paint on the tram - he got that close. The driver of the tram was looking back at the car, scratching his head and wondering how the fuck the car avoided bashing into the side of his big, hard to miss vehicle. Except that the car was now heading down the tram tracks (bad place to be) and coming straight for me (even worse place to be).
Idiot finally worked out that he was in a complete mess, so he did a right hand down, bounced across the footpath and was back on the road in no time. In the meantime, I cleaned out my pants and continued on to work. The driver seemed completely unconcerned - like running red lights and narrowly avoiding trams and cyclists was something that he did on a daily basis.
Probably a courier on his day off.
Which tram tracks?
Well, given that Sydney only has one set of tram tracks at present, it should be pretty easy to figure out the ones I am talking about.
Given the shortage of trams in Sydney compared to say, Melbourne, you can understand the state of utter confusion that some drivers are reduced to when they suddenly find themselves confronted by a small train coming down the street at them. If you drive around all day and see cars, buses, trucks, motorbikes and endless traffic jams, it is quite normal to be reduced to incoherent shock by the sight of something that is not running on 2, 4, 6 or 18 rubber wheels.
At least that is my theory for why some drivers are complete fucking idiots when placed in the vicinity of these tram tracks.
The best thing about following a tram is that it clears a path for you. Pesky pedestrians (at least those that want to keep their arms and legs attached to their body) get out of the way. Cars tend to stop. Even buses and taxis don't dare mess with a tram, so I tuck in behind them (not too close - I don't want to eat the back of one when an errant taxi swerves in front of one and causes the brakes to go on hard) and breeze across town from west to east, or east to west if I am on the way home.
Some people just don't get this whole concept of "stay out of the way of the trams".
There I am, cruising into town a few days ago (in the pissing rain) and I can see that I have a clear run across a set of lights because a tram is coming the other way. That means the lights to the left and right of the intersection will be red, and cars will be no go-ey. Cars no-go. Cars stay put. Cars do not pass go and collect $200.
So I am happy and content and soaking wet and about to go through the intersection when this tool comes through the intersection from my left - and heads straight for the side of the tram! Now a tram is a big thing - it is perhaps taller than a bus, and longer than a semi trailer, so you'd expect most people to be able to see them from some distance. But not this cretin. He kept on heading towards it until (duh) he suddenly noticed it at the last moment and swerved...
...right at me. He must have scraped the paint on the tram - he got that close. The driver of the tram was looking back at the car, scratching his head and wondering how the fuck the car avoided bashing into the side of his big, hard to miss vehicle. Except that the car was now heading down the tram tracks (bad place to be) and coming straight for me (even worse place to be).
Idiot finally worked out that he was in a complete mess, so he did a right hand down, bounced across the footpath and was back on the road in no time. In the meantime, I cleaned out my pants and continued on to work. The driver seemed completely unconcerned - like running red lights and narrowly avoiding trams and cyclists was something that he did on a daily basis.
Probably a courier on his day off.
Killing slugs with coffee
Normally, we only see slugs in the kitchen well after lights out, but the end of daylight savings must have confused this slug, because it was wandering around the kitchen floor at 7pm.
Photographing slugs is an art form in itself. It is a difficult, complicated and technical process. I am sure that if I visit the local library and look for books on slug photography, there will be shelves full of books describing how to position and light slugs, F-stops to use, shutter speeds, filters and all the rest.
If anyone can tell me the best way to pose a slug, I'd be grateful.
As per my recently posted slug killing instructions, I made up a cup of instant coffee and spread the coffee mix around the slug. Slug got black coffee only - no latte or soy decaf for him. No sugar either. Just plain black coffee dolloped around him. Slug seemed to sniff at the coffee, and then made a break for the high ground.
I was waiting for slugo to touch the coffee and then burst into flames, explode or maybe turn inside out, but he showed no signs of wanting to immolate or go to Allah. He just kept on slime-ing right the way cross my sea of coffee.
So I poured a teaspoon of coffee over his head. Again, he didn't burst into flames or anything interesting - he just vigorously shook his head and kept on slugging away towards the kitchen floor.
It was at that point that the experiment was terminated by me tossing slug into the rubbish bin.
Never fear - there are plenty more experimental subjects where he came from, and I don't think I have to worry about any invertebrate rights groups breaking into my house to set all my slugs free.
Photographing slugs is an art form in itself. It is a difficult, complicated and technical process. I am sure that if I visit the local library and look for books on slug photography, there will be shelves full of books describing how to position and light slugs, F-stops to use, shutter speeds, filters and all the rest.
If anyone can tell me the best way to pose a slug, I'd be grateful.
As per my recently posted slug killing instructions, I made up a cup of instant coffee and spread the coffee mix around the slug. Slug got black coffee only - no latte or soy decaf for him. No sugar either. Just plain black coffee dolloped around him. Slug seemed to sniff at the coffee, and then made a break for the high ground.
I was waiting for slugo to touch the coffee and then burst into flames, explode or maybe turn inside out, but he showed no signs of wanting to immolate or go to Allah. He just kept on slime-ing right the way cross my sea of coffee.
So I poured a teaspoon of coffee over his head. Again, he didn't burst into flames or anything interesting - he just vigorously shook his head and kept on slugging away towards the kitchen floor.
It was at that point that the experiment was terminated by me tossing slug into the rubbish bin.
Never fear - there are plenty more experimental subjects where he came from, and I don't think I have to worry about any invertebrate rights groups breaking into my house to set all my slugs free.
Nova offices - part II
Someone left a comment on this story recently about my views on Nova and their office lights at 6.30am. I took that on board, and stopped on the way home last night to take some photos of the Nova offices from the bike ramp on the Anzac Bridge.
Peering into offices is not something that I am terribly comfortable with, but a question was raised about what I could and could not see, so this is the only way to answer it.
I took a series of 9 photos, and the only reason I am not publishing them is that they came out like crap. My camera's zoom is useless once it goes over 3x, and the light at 5pm was all wrong - it was over my shoulder and reflecting off the glass. The human eye could see into the offices without too many problems, but the camera could not get past the reflecting glass. I will have to stop again one morning and try again when the light is better.
My survey of an entire wall of offices at 5pm showed that only one showed any sign of human activity - and from my vantage point, I could see into 3 floors worth of offices. I think the shot above shows that one has a pretty clear view from the bike ramp, even if the shot comes out blurry and the interior is as distinct as looking through a porthole of the Titanic at 6000 fathoms. In short, it is dead easy to tell with the naked eye whether an office has someone in it or not, and it is even more distinct at 6.30am when it is dark outside and light within.
I hope that answers the query about how I could see into all the offices.
Peering into offices is not something that I am terribly comfortable with, but a question was raised about what I could and could not see, so this is the only way to answer it.
I took a series of 9 photos, and the only reason I am not publishing them is that they came out like crap. My camera's zoom is useless once it goes over 3x, and the light at 5pm was all wrong - it was over my shoulder and reflecting off the glass. The human eye could see into the offices without too many problems, but the camera could not get past the reflecting glass. I will have to stop again one morning and try again when the light is better.
My survey of an entire wall of offices at 5pm showed that only one showed any sign of human activity - and from my vantage point, I could see into 3 floors worth of offices. I think the shot above shows that one has a pretty clear view from the bike ramp, even if the shot comes out blurry and the interior is as distinct as looking through a porthole of the Titanic at 6000 fathoms. In short, it is dead easy to tell with the naked eye whether an office has someone in it or not, and it is even more distinct at 6.30am when it is dark outside and light within.
I hope that answers the query about how I could see into all the offices.
Tuesday, 8 April 2008
Red topped bastard
Spotted this bloke in red on the way home. He looked about my age and weight (had a beer gut that looked mighty similar) and even grey hairs in the right places. I thought for a moment that I was looking at a dopelganger.
Then the bastard just took off like a rocket and left me eating his dust. The similarities in our physique and fitness ended mighty quick. I only caught him because he stopped at a red light.
There's this stretch of Lilyfield Road where it's a nice downhill and it's easy to drift up to about 45km/h without really trying. It's a favourite spot for me to catch the quick bastards, because my weight gives me a tremendous push down the hill, allowing me to build speed really quickly.
I tried it on this bastard - no dice, couldn't catch him at 45km/h. Cranked it up to 50 and showed minimal gains only - he was really cooking. Downhill stretches don't last forever, so I thought I'd have a chance of catching him as we went around the bends and into some gentle uphill bits - but he just kept on thumping out the power, and I just died in the arse.
Nice to know there are some old bastards out there with a bit of pace.
We both stopped at the red, had a breather, and I snapped this photo. When the light went green, we took off - he much more quickly than me - and then this skinny little bugger (Julian I think) just blew past both of us like we were standing still.
I did catch Julian a bit later on though. The very last bit of Lilyfield Rd has a nice steep bit - steep enough to hit 60km/h without even trying - and the difference in our weights really showed on that hill. He was pedalling like mad, and I was only rolling without turning a crank, and I went past him like I had a jetpack on the back.
At my age, not only are there people out there that are much fitter and faster than me - there are people even fitter and faster than them.
Then the bastard just took off like a rocket and left me eating his dust. The similarities in our physique and fitness ended mighty quick. I only caught him because he stopped at a red light.
There's this stretch of Lilyfield Road where it's a nice downhill and it's easy to drift up to about 45km/h without really trying. It's a favourite spot for me to catch the quick bastards, because my weight gives me a tremendous push down the hill, allowing me to build speed really quickly.
I tried it on this bastard - no dice, couldn't catch him at 45km/h. Cranked it up to 50 and showed minimal gains only - he was really cooking. Downhill stretches don't last forever, so I thought I'd have a chance of catching him as we went around the bends and into some gentle uphill bits - but he just kept on thumping out the power, and I just died in the arse.
Nice to know there are some old bastards out there with a bit of pace.
We both stopped at the red, had a breather, and I snapped this photo. When the light went green, we took off - he much more quickly than me - and then this skinny little bugger (Julian I think) just blew past both of us like we were standing still.
I did catch Julian a bit later on though. The very last bit of Lilyfield Rd has a nice steep bit - steep enough to hit 60km/h without even trying - and the difference in our weights really showed on that hill. He was pedalling like mad, and I was only rolling without turning a crank, and I went past him like I had a jetpack on the back.
At my age, not only are there people out there that are much fitter and faster than me - there are people even fitter and faster than them.
Trust your local Council...
The weather in Sydney has looked like this for the last few days. Wet. Trust me - I know. I have ridden through those green patches and gotten thoroughly soaked.
This photo shows one of our Council parks on Monday morning - although rain was forecast, the sprinklers were going full blast.
They were still going full blast when I rode past on the way home 10 hours later. Needless to say, no one was doing any rugby training, as the ground had turned into a swimming pool by that point.
This photo shows one of our Council parks on Monday morning - although rain was forecast, the sprinklers were going full blast.
They were still going full blast when I rode past on the way home 10 hours later. Needless to say, no one was doing any rugby training, as the ground had turned into a swimming pool by that point.
Sunday, 6 April 2008
Who do you fight for?
I read some stupid fucking comment the other day by some left wing nutbag (haven't found a link) who suggested that military enlistment would increase under the Rudd government because Rudd would be less likely to send our forces into combat.
That comment was clearly made by someone who has never served in the military, or perhaps even met anyone that has ever donned a uniform.
It's 17 years since I took my part time uniform off, and I never heard a shot fired in anger. But at the time, I wouldn't have minded brassing up the enemies of our country, and was gutted that Hawke wouldn't send us to Iraq for Round One. I quit not long after, figuring that there was no point in spending another 7 years square bashing and firing blanks out in the shrubbery.
Dickhead didn't seem to get the point that people like me sign up to serve our country, and fight for it if need be. But the government is not our country. As Downer put it the other day, the government is only "borrowing" the job at the moment. The country is a permanent thing; the government is transient. I served under that fat useless fuck Beazley, and his Master, Hawke. If they had sent us off to bayonet people in same dark shithole on the other side of the planet, I would not have been fighting for them. I would have been fighting for my country.
Don't confuse the two.
So to suggest that more people will want to serve under Rudd shows that fuckface can't separate the two, and thinks that Rudd is now Australia. A modern version of "Le etate - ce moi", or however it goes.
If anything enlistment will go down, because people like me join wanting to see a bit of action. I don't mean we want to go and refight WWII - but we want to be somewhere doing something. Sitting on your arse all day in barracks is not my idea of doing something. Sailors join the Navy to sail, not to sit around tied up to the wharf. Infantrymen join up to visit interesting countries, experience other cultures and then kill people. Pilots join the Air Farce to fly, not play Nintendo.
Softcock academics might like to sit around all day pontificating about what an evil bastard I am, but that's just how it is. I'm a sane, sober family man these days with no desire to even have harsh words with a drunk up at the corner pub, but there was a time when I found the sight of tracer drifting over the hills at night to be a sublime thing. If you want to attract young studs to the military, give them something to look forward to, like things that go BLAT, BOOM and BLAM (preferably in interesting foreign climes).
That comment was clearly made by someone who has never served in the military, or perhaps even met anyone that has ever donned a uniform.
It's 17 years since I took my part time uniform off, and I never heard a shot fired in anger. But at the time, I wouldn't have minded brassing up the enemies of our country, and was gutted that Hawke wouldn't send us to Iraq for Round One. I quit not long after, figuring that there was no point in spending another 7 years square bashing and firing blanks out in the shrubbery.
Dickhead didn't seem to get the point that people like me sign up to serve our country, and fight for it if need be. But the government is not our country. As Downer put it the other day, the government is only "borrowing" the job at the moment. The country is a permanent thing; the government is transient. I served under that fat useless fuck Beazley, and his Master, Hawke. If they had sent us off to bayonet people in same dark shithole on the other side of the planet, I would not have been fighting for them. I would have been fighting for my country.
Don't confuse the two.
So to suggest that more people will want to serve under Rudd shows that fuckface can't separate the two, and thinks that Rudd is now Australia. A modern version of "Le etate - ce moi", or however it goes.
If anything enlistment will go down, because people like me join wanting to see a bit of action. I don't mean we want to go and refight WWII - but we want to be somewhere doing something. Sitting on your arse all day in barracks is not my idea of doing something. Sailors join the Navy to sail, not to sit around tied up to the wharf. Infantrymen join up to visit interesting countries, experience other cultures and then kill people. Pilots join the Air Farce to fly, not play Nintendo.
Softcock academics might like to sit around all day pontificating about what an evil bastard I am, but that's just how it is. I'm a sane, sober family man these days with no desire to even have harsh words with a drunk up at the corner pub, but there was a time when I found the sight of tracer drifting over the hills at night to be a sublime thing. If you want to attract young studs to the military, give them something to look forward to, like things that go BLAT, BOOM and BLAM (preferably in interesting foreign climes).
Enjoy these while you can
Vertical sprinklers, or fountains as some people like to call them, have been a feature of civilisation for, I don't know how long - 3000 or 4000 years perhaps? Whereas they used to be driven by gravity, now they rely on electric pumps to get that water up and dancing.
Electric pumps. Electricity. Very bad for the penguins, or the polar bears, or the plankton - whatever.
The lentil eating, hair shirt wearing, sandal shod, anti-civilisation, self-flagelating brigade will have these things shut down if they get their chance. To their mean little eyes, sending a bit of CO2 up the power station chimney to produce a bit of pleasure and relaxation is a terrible thing to do - a sin of the worst sort. A crime against Gaia.
Well, fuck them and the unicycle they rode in on. These modern puritans can go shove it.
Electric pumps. Electricity. Very bad for the penguins, or the polar bears, or the plankton - whatever.
The lentil eating, hair shirt wearing, sandal shod, anti-civilisation, self-flagelating brigade will have these things shut down if they get their chance. To their mean little eyes, sending a bit of CO2 up the power station chimney to produce a bit of pleasure and relaxation is a terrible thing to do - a sin of the worst sort. A crime against Gaia.
Well, fuck them and the unicycle they rode in on. These modern puritans can go shove it.
The ABC is such a downer
Thanks to Andrew Bolt, I got to read this delicious interview with Alexander Downer.
MONICA ATTARD: But presumably it's a very long way from conversation and dining in the white house to, you know a chat and dinner at the local RSL.
ALEXANDER DOWNER: But it always has been, yeah, I mean when I was the foreign minister I also went to the local RSL, I might you know go to the Macclesfield RSL for their ANZAC service or for the you know, local rotary club meeting. I don't really look at it like that, I mean whether I'll talking to Condi Rice or whether I'm talking to the President of the Mt Barker Rotary Club, I mean they're both people and have different interests and different perspectives but I enjoy both.
MONICA ATTARD: Presumably there's a vast difference in the degree of intellectual stimulation you'd get from either end?
ALEXANDER DOWNER: Well that depends very much on who you're talking to, not every foreign minister I've met is intellectually stimulating and plenty of people in Rotary Clubs or wherever it may be service clubs or RSLs or just in the community can be very intellectually stimulating.
And just because someone works at say the local butcher, it doesn't make them a complete bore to talk to. In fact my local butcher is 10 times more interesting and engaging than the last Federal Minister that I sat next to at dinner.
If Attard thinks that one will suffer dreadfully from "relevance deprivation syndrome" once one leaves a high powered job like this, then she is going to have a shit time when she leaves marxism, sorry - I mean journalism at the ABC. Just image how tough it will be, being an ex-journo, no longer talking to the rich and powerful on a daily basis, but reduced to chatting to taxi drivers and mums in the supermarket queue. Oh, woe is me, the pain of having to deal with the little people!
Someone really needs to prick the bubble that these pricks at the ABC exist in.
Idiot drivers
There's a story in the SMH today about how many cars are being smashed up by public servants in NSW. $80 million worth of damage was done to pube vehicles last year.
If $80 million worth was smashed up, one has to ask just how many vehicles the state is running and what their total value is. I imagine that it is frighteningly large.
But enough of that. I spent a bit of time working for a state agency, and was responsible for a couple of pool vehicles. That meant I had to sign the claim forms after one of my goons had a prang, which at one point, seemed to be every single week.
Here's my take on it.
The worst prang our "fleet" experienced was a write-off. The bloke driving it had stopped on a motorway due to a prang up ahead, and some dickhead came flying up behind him and rear-ended him badly enough to smash the car to bits. He was ok, which is all I cared about. Not much that you could have done about that.
At the other end of the spectrum, our office had an incredibly stupid person in it, and we generally did our best to avoid getting that person to do anything that involved responsibility or heavy machinery, since they'd make a complete fuck-up of it.
In the case of our cars, this one idiot did more damage to our vehicles - whilst they were in the car park - than all my other staff put together. And of course idiot disdained any responsibility for the damage, refusing to fill out accident forms and the like, even when they had clearly been the cause. Idiot managed to tear off side mirrors on poles whilst reversing in the car park, smashed up the front grill by ramming something else in the car park, and damaged numerous panels by taking corners too tightly and riding the car sideways into concrete poles.
It was pretty obvious that when you have yellow "warning" poles in the car park, and you suddenly have a big dent with yellow smeared paint on one door just after they have driven the car, that they've managed to ding the car - but they'd adamntly refuse to believe that they did the damage.
I followed idiot down to the car park one day and watched them tear off the passenger mirror on a pole. When I confronted idiot with the damage, they were completely oblivious to what they'd done, and of course denied all responsibility. Absolutely amazing.
We did our best to keep the car keys well away from this person, until my boss, in a fit of complete stupidity, put them in charge of the car pool! Talk about the lunatics taking over the asylum.
Once idiot had the keys to the pool, they started to treat the cars as their personal property. Taking them home on weekends to run errands, even though they never had to drive the car for company business. Taking the car out during the day to run personal errands, even when someone might have needed the car for a work trip. And it's not like they lived close to work - they had a commute of at least 80km, so taking the car home every weekend consumed a reasonable amount of petrol. Being the public sector, there didn't seem to be much that could be done to pull them into line. Sack them? Ha ha ha.
Apart from idiot, most of my people treated the car pool with a lot of respect - mainly because I'd lightly bollock them if they didn't keep the cars clean and tidy and drive them in a reasonable manner. I simply told my staff that if they got a speeding ticket in a work vehicle, they'd be in the shit - so no thrashing the cars around the countryside like loons. People got a vehicle when they were on-call, and being on-call added a tidy amount to the pay packet. I simply said that anyone getting a ticket would not be doing on-call for at least 3 months, which would be quite costly to the offender. Funny how the cars weren't thrashed after that.
Once people were given an excuse to behave properly, they actually behaved quite well. If they were driving with someone, and they told them to stop driving like a granny and put their foot down, they'd tell them to fuck off, because there'd be consequences.
So everyone was good to the cars, except an idiot manager that I had no control over. He was the type of 50 year old boy racer fuckwad that drove a WRX, and drove it at high speed everywhere in order to show off.
The guy was a complete wanker in every form of the word.
He thought that it was his right to drive the pool cars in a fast and reckless manner, and I only ever let him drive me once. After one high speed jaunt down Parrammatta Road, which scared the shit out of everyone on board because of the insane stupidity of the driving practices on show, we all refused to travel with him again. The boss found out about it and he was banned from the pool cars, and had to put up with my granny driving after that. Thank Christ for that.
The thing is, it was pretty obvious around the office that two people should never have been allowed behind the wheel of a car, and we did our best to make it so.
It's a pity we couldn't stop them from driving altogether. It's dickheads like them that can make driving such a misery.
If $80 million worth was smashed up, one has to ask just how many vehicles the state is running and what their total value is. I imagine that it is frighteningly large.
But enough of that. I spent a bit of time working for a state agency, and was responsible for a couple of pool vehicles. That meant I had to sign the claim forms after one of my goons had a prang, which at one point, seemed to be every single week.
Here's my take on it.
The worst prang our "fleet" experienced was a write-off. The bloke driving it had stopped on a motorway due to a prang up ahead, and some dickhead came flying up behind him and rear-ended him badly enough to smash the car to bits. He was ok, which is all I cared about. Not much that you could have done about that.
At the other end of the spectrum, our office had an incredibly stupid person in it, and we generally did our best to avoid getting that person to do anything that involved responsibility or heavy machinery, since they'd make a complete fuck-up of it.
In the case of our cars, this one idiot did more damage to our vehicles - whilst they were in the car park - than all my other staff put together. And of course idiot disdained any responsibility for the damage, refusing to fill out accident forms and the like, even when they had clearly been the cause. Idiot managed to tear off side mirrors on poles whilst reversing in the car park, smashed up the front grill by ramming something else in the car park, and damaged numerous panels by taking corners too tightly and riding the car sideways into concrete poles.
It was pretty obvious that when you have yellow "warning" poles in the car park, and you suddenly have a big dent with yellow smeared paint on one door just after they have driven the car, that they've managed to ding the car - but they'd adamntly refuse to believe that they did the damage.
I followed idiot down to the car park one day and watched them tear off the passenger mirror on a pole. When I confronted idiot with the damage, they were completely oblivious to what they'd done, and of course denied all responsibility. Absolutely amazing.
We did our best to keep the car keys well away from this person, until my boss, in a fit of complete stupidity, put them in charge of the car pool! Talk about the lunatics taking over the asylum.
Once idiot had the keys to the pool, they started to treat the cars as their personal property. Taking them home on weekends to run errands, even though they never had to drive the car for company business. Taking the car out during the day to run personal errands, even when someone might have needed the car for a work trip. And it's not like they lived close to work - they had a commute of at least 80km, so taking the car home every weekend consumed a reasonable amount of petrol. Being the public sector, there didn't seem to be much that could be done to pull them into line. Sack them? Ha ha ha.
Apart from idiot, most of my people treated the car pool with a lot of respect - mainly because I'd lightly bollock them if they didn't keep the cars clean and tidy and drive them in a reasonable manner. I simply told my staff that if they got a speeding ticket in a work vehicle, they'd be in the shit - so no thrashing the cars around the countryside like loons. People got a vehicle when they were on-call, and being on-call added a tidy amount to the pay packet. I simply said that anyone getting a ticket would not be doing on-call for at least 3 months, which would be quite costly to the offender. Funny how the cars weren't thrashed after that.
Once people were given an excuse to behave properly, they actually behaved quite well. If they were driving with someone, and they told them to stop driving like a granny and put their foot down, they'd tell them to fuck off, because there'd be consequences.
So everyone was good to the cars, except an idiot manager that I had no control over. He was the type of 50 year old boy racer fuckwad that drove a WRX, and drove it at high speed everywhere in order to show off.
The guy was a complete wanker in every form of the word.
He thought that it was his right to drive the pool cars in a fast and reckless manner, and I only ever let him drive me once. After one high speed jaunt down Parrammatta Road, which scared the shit out of everyone on board because of the insane stupidity of the driving practices on show, we all refused to travel with him again. The boss found out about it and he was banned from the pool cars, and had to put up with my granny driving after that. Thank Christ for that.
The thing is, it was pretty obvious around the office that two people should never have been allowed behind the wheel of a car, and we did our best to make it so.
It's a pity we couldn't stop them from driving altogether. It's dickheads like them that can make driving such a misery.
Saturday, 5 April 2008
Ghost hunting?
I've been working in a really noisy spot recently - so noisy, that I have been reduced to buying some ear plugs, and giving serious consideration to some expensive noise cancelling headphones.
Being the curious type, I actually want to know how noisy the place is. I want to measure the noise level with a noise meter thingy.
So I did a bit of googling, and found that it would cost me about $US120 to get a meter, so I dropped that idea and invested in another bucket of 80 cent earplugs.
But I did find this.
ELF-Zone / General Purpose EMF Detector for Home, Office & Paranormal Investigations
I guess someone has to make a buck out of it.
Being the curious type, I actually want to know how noisy the place is. I want to measure the noise level with a noise meter thingy.
So I did a bit of googling, and found that it would cost me about $US120 to get a meter, so I dropped that idea and invested in another bucket of 80 cent earplugs.
But I did find this.
ELF-Zone / General Purpose EMF Detector for Home, Office & Paranormal Investigations
I guess someone has to make a buck out of it.
Icecream
Right, here we have to icecream options from the freezer. On the right, weighing in at 939gms, we have some Streets vanilla icecream (2 litres thereof). Cost - about $4.19.
On the left, we have some Maggie Beer Vanilla Bean and Elderflower icecream. Got no idea what it weighed before I opened it and ate it, but that small tub cost about twice as much as the big one.
The verdict?
I am a sucker for real vanilla icecream - the kind of stuff that has little bits of vanilla bean clearly visible in it, so in most circumstances, I'd say max out the credit card and blow your dosh on Maggie's stuff.
But in this case, the elderflower is just not to my taste. Pity. It was good to try something completely out of the ordinary, but it's too whacky for my taste. I'm sticking to the bland, factory mush from Streets. Until I find a really good, simple, vanilla bean icecream. Then Streets can stick this 2 litre tub up their arse.
On the left, we have some Maggie Beer Vanilla Bean and Elderflower icecream. Got no idea what it weighed before I opened it and ate it, but that small tub cost about twice as much as the big one.
The verdict?
I am a sucker for real vanilla icecream - the kind of stuff that has little bits of vanilla bean clearly visible in it, so in most circumstances, I'd say max out the credit card and blow your dosh on Maggie's stuff.
But in this case, the elderflower is just not to my taste. Pity. It was good to try something completely out of the ordinary, but it's too whacky for my taste. I'm sticking to the bland, factory mush from Streets. Until I find a really good, simple, vanilla bean icecream. Then Streets can stick this 2 litre tub up their arse.
Who left the lights on?
Got no idea what position Nova took on Earth Hour, but I hope it wasn't a hypocritical one. Here is an outside view of their building at 6.30am - note that a lot of the lights are burning, but there is no one at work (I checked as I rode down the ramp - maybe the staff are hiding under their desks?)
PS - it was quite dark at the time; the camera just makes it look like daylight.
PS - it was quite dark at the time; the camera just makes it look like daylight.
Three views of sunrise
Three photos, taken with the same camera only seconds apart. The differences are all down to shutter speed.
Major league tosser
Check out the spoiler of stupidity on this thing.
You see something like this on the road, you just want to waggle your little finger at the idiot behind the wheel.
Try hard.
You see something like this on the road, you just want to waggle your little finger at the idiot behind the wheel.
Try hard.
Julia Gillard is an idiot
Sorry, but I just have to say it - Gillard is an idiot.
Why?
I was listening to Marxist FM, er, JJJ the other day and there was a story on Hack (I think) about how the government is going to push for more kids from low incomes to go to Uni.
What an insanely stupid idea.
I went to Uni. So did my parents and my siblings and most of my friends, so I have an idea of what goes on at Uni.
It's not all it's cracked up to be. I am not going to be pushing my kids to go to Uni.
But that's not why this is a stupid idea.
It's a stupid idea because it contradicts another government policy, which is to reduce binge drinking.
My five years at uni were spent on one long binge. Uni was essentially an excuse to get hammered 6 nights a week. Talk about binge drinking. We once found ourselves the proud owners of a 10 gallon keg, but due to certain circumstances that I will not bore you with, we only had one hour to drink it.
10 of us managed to put away a 10 gallon keg in one hour. That involved an awful lot of sculling and a certain amount of vomiting, but it was not something totally out of the ordinary. Most of the university societies that I was a member of were devoted to drinking until you dropped, generally via a toga party.
And what supported those toga parties?
Why, nothing else than Compulsory Student Unionism. Part time, mature aged students had to pay a few hundred dollars to join a union that they never had anything to do with, so there were pots of money to spend on us 18 year old full time students, and a great deal of that money was converted into beer and flushed through the Uni Tavern.
This stupid Labor government of course wants to return us to the bad old days of compulsory student unionism, which will add great gobs of money into the binge drinking pool.
By the time I left Uni, drinking was no longer the main game. Thanks to HECS, the next generation spent most of their time swotting, and very little time boozing. HECS put a stake through the heart of the Uni Tavern, along with fun activities like drinking jugs of tequila sunrise at lunchtime, and getting too drunk to attend maths lectures. Or getting so drunk that one fell asleep in maths lectures and started to snore loundly.
And what does Gillard want to do? Reduce the fees that Uni students have to pay, which of course will only put more money in their pockets, which will be spent on grog.
I'm not sure what Gillard did when she was at uni. Swotted and attended Young Communist meetings I guess. I spent most of mine avoiding any form of study, with the majority spent chasing skirt, getting plastered and pulling stunts stupid enough to have me thrown out of college after one year.
I think I was in the majority. Certainly the fullness of the pubs in Claremont on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights suggested that most students were more taken with the idea of getting a skinful of booze than a headful of knowledge.
So what will we get if we send more low income students to Uni?
Well, what do we usually associate with poor people?
Drugs, booze and crime. And indolence, which is why a lot of them are poor in the first place. So we're going to take kids, who have grown up in households where the parents down a bottle of vodka and a pack of Winnie Blues each a night, and put them into Uni with a pocket full of cash and unlimited inducements to get legless as often as possible.
Great idea, Julia.
You really are a pillock. Full of edumacation, empty of real world experience and common sense.
Why?
I was listening to Marxist FM, er, JJJ the other day and there was a story on Hack (I think) about how the government is going to push for more kids from low incomes to go to Uni.
What an insanely stupid idea.
I went to Uni. So did my parents and my siblings and most of my friends, so I have an idea of what goes on at Uni.
It's not all it's cracked up to be. I am not going to be pushing my kids to go to Uni.
But that's not why this is a stupid idea.
It's a stupid idea because it contradicts another government policy, which is to reduce binge drinking.
My five years at uni were spent on one long binge. Uni was essentially an excuse to get hammered 6 nights a week. Talk about binge drinking. We once found ourselves the proud owners of a 10 gallon keg, but due to certain circumstances that I will not bore you with, we only had one hour to drink it.
10 of us managed to put away a 10 gallon keg in one hour. That involved an awful lot of sculling and a certain amount of vomiting, but it was not something totally out of the ordinary. Most of the university societies that I was a member of were devoted to drinking until you dropped, generally via a toga party.
And what supported those toga parties?
Why, nothing else than Compulsory Student Unionism. Part time, mature aged students had to pay a few hundred dollars to join a union that they never had anything to do with, so there were pots of money to spend on us 18 year old full time students, and a great deal of that money was converted into beer and flushed through the Uni Tavern.
This stupid Labor government of course wants to return us to the bad old days of compulsory student unionism, which will add great gobs of money into the binge drinking pool.
By the time I left Uni, drinking was no longer the main game. Thanks to HECS, the next generation spent most of their time swotting, and very little time boozing. HECS put a stake through the heart of the Uni Tavern, along with fun activities like drinking jugs of tequila sunrise at lunchtime, and getting too drunk to attend maths lectures. Or getting so drunk that one fell asleep in maths lectures and started to snore loundly.
And what does Gillard want to do? Reduce the fees that Uni students have to pay, which of course will only put more money in their pockets, which will be spent on grog.
I'm not sure what Gillard did when she was at uni. Swotted and attended Young Communist meetings I guess. I spent most of mine avoiding any form of study, with the majority spent chasing skirt, getting plastered and pulling stunts stupid enough to have me thrown out of college after one year.
I think I was in the majority. Certainly the fullness of the pubs in Claremont on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights suggested that most students were more taken with the idea of getting a skinful of booze than a headful of knowledge.
So what will we get if we send more low income students to Uni?
Well, what do we usually associate with poor people?
Drugs, booze and crime. And indolence, which is why a lot of them are poor in the first place. So we're going to take kids, who have grown up in households where the parents down a bottle of vodka and a pack of Winnie Blues each a night, and put them into Uni with a pocket full of cash and unlimited inducements to get legless as often as possible.
Great idea, Julia.
You really are a pillock. Full of edumacation, empty of real world experience and common sense.
Speed
I had a look at the digital recorder thingy last night and found that we had gone from having 10 saved episodes of Top Gear to two, so I made sure I watched one before it too was deleted.
Hang on - what is a cyclist doing watching Top Gear? Surely that is heresy, given what Clarkson has to say about those on two wheels (including motor bikes).
Well, I think not. Because Top Gear is not just about cars - it is a celebration of speed, and what the car has given us as a society (lots of freedom) and it certainly sticks up a big middle finger at the safety nazi, tree hugging, whale mooching establishment.
And I'm all for that. Riding a bike certainly doesn't equate with a hankering for say "slow food". I do not move slowly. I do not meander when I walk - I stride, and I get really impatient with people that amble. When I swim, I don't exactly move through the water like Ian Thorpe, but you'll never find me in the slow lane. When I ride, I hit the cranks as hard as my legs will allow, and I start to see red when I get stuck behind Captain Granny and his Volvo-like riding habits. The only people that should be permitted to ride at a sedate pace are nuns and vicars, and I doubt that I will see many of them on my commuting route. Every other bastard can pull his finger out and get the revs up.
If our highways were like autobahns, you'd find me tonking along at 100 mph in the Disco, or trading it in on something that cruises at 200kmh plus. I am not averse to going as quickly as the road will bear - I never got my old car (circa 1971) up to 100 mph in the Sydney Harbour Tunnel (prior to the speed cameras being installed), but I did my best.
Which is why I can't stand slow cyclists. I hate plonkers. If you're going to spend some money on a bike, spend enough time on it so that you have the fitness and strength to be capable of zipping along with the traffic. If you can't, trade it in on a moped. Your dilatroiousness is shitting both me and those sitting in their cars, fuming at the sight of your bum plodding along in front of them at 4km/h.
Hang on - what is a cyclist doing watching Top Gear? Surely that is heresy, given what Clarkson has to say about those on two wheels (including motor bikes).
Well, I think not. Because Top Gear is not just about cars - it is a celebration of speed, and what the car has given us as a society (lots of freedom) and it certainly sticks up a big middle finger at the safety nazi, tree hugging, whale mooching establishment.
And I'm all for that. Riding a bike certainly doesn't equate with a hankering for say "slow food". I do not move slowly. I do not meander when I walk - I stride, and I get really impatient with people that amble. When I swim, I don't exactly move through the water like Ian Thorpe, but you'll never find me in the slow lane. When I ride, I hit the cranks as hard as my legs will allow, and I start to see red when I get stuck behind Captain Granny and his Volvo-like riding habits. The only people that should be permitted to ride at a sedate pace are nuns and vicars, and I doubt that I will see many of them on my commuting route. Every other bastard can pull his finger out and get the revs up.
If our highways were like autobahns, you'd find me tonking along at 100 mph in the Disco, or trading it in on something that cruises at 200kmh plus. I am not averse to going as quickly as the road will bear - I never got my old car (circa 1971) up to 100 mph in the Sydney Harbour Tunnel (prior to the speed cameras being installed), but I did my best.
Which is why I can't stand slow cyclists. I hate plonkers. If you're going to spend some money on a bike, spend enough time on it so that you have the fitness and strength to be capable of zipping along with the traffic. If you can't, trade it in on a moped. Your dilatroiousness is shitting both me and those sitting in their cars, fuming at the sight of your bum plodding along in front of them at 4km/h.
Friday, 4 April 2008
Blowing in the wind
For once, I was glad to take the bus yesterday. (I had to, as the bike was at work). It turned out that the day was windy as hell - no rain or thunder or anything, just an enormous amount of wind.
The interesting thing is how the wind piled up all the leaves and rubbish into piles in the oddest of places. When I first walked past these two cars when the wind was really howling, the leaves were up the door handles. I came back two hours later (when this photo was taken) and they had subisided somewhat.
I passed a few more piles like this in other places - at the foot of stairs, in the middle of courtyards - that kind of thing. I guess the city landscape creates all sorts of odd vorticies and wind tunnels.
The worst thing though was that the most common item of rubbish in these piles seemed to be either a McDonalds drink cup or a McDonalds medium fries packet.
This whole thing was like Nature's leaf blower writ huge.
The interesting thing is how the wind piled up all the leaves and rubbish into piles in the oddest of places. When I first walked past these two cars when the wind was really howling, the leaves were up the door handles. I came back two hours later (when this photo was taken) and they had subisided somewhat.
I passed a few more piles like this in other places - at the foot of stairs, in the middle of courtyards - that kind of thing. I guess the city landscape creates all sorts of odd vorticies and wind tunnels.
The worst thing though was that the most common item of rubbish in these piles seemed to be either a McDonalds drink cup or a McDonalds medium fries packet.
This whole thing was like Nature's leaf blower writ huge.
Thursday, 3 April 2008
Disappeared like a Ghost
Overheard an interesting conversation between two teenage chicks in the supermarket last night.
One was reading some sort of cheapo girlie mag that they sell at the counter.
"Eeeew, have you seen the old woman that Ashton Kutchner is going out with?
"No."
"It's Demi Moore."
"Who?"
"I dunno, but she's like 50 years old and completely horrible."
"Who's Ashton Kutchner?'
"He did like, 'Dude, Where's My Car'."
"Oh."
It went on like this in the same vein for a minute or so.
It wasn't until this morning that I discovered that Ghost was made in 1990. I guess these girls should consider the fact that the movie was that mushy, it might have been the cause of their conception.
Demi is 45 by the way.
One was reading some sort of cheapo girlie mag that they sell at the counter.
"Eeeew, have you seen the old woman that Ashton Kutchner is going out with?
"No."
"It's Demi Moore."
"Who?"
"I dunno, but she's like 50 years old and completely horrible."
"Who's Ashton Kutchner?'
"He did like, 'Dude, Where's My Car'."
"Oh."
It went on like this in the same vein for a minute or so.
It wasn't until this morning that I discovered that Ghost was made in 1990. I guess these girls should consider the fact that the movie was that mushy, it might have been the cause of their conception.
Demi is 45 by the way.
Wednesday, 2 April 2008
Vomit tastes better than bread
Hey, don't take my word for it - talk to the pigeons.
Oh, pigeons can't talk.
In that case, just observe the pigeons. I found a flock of flying rats last week absolutely going for something tasty on the ground, whilst ignoring a pile of bread rolls nearby.
It turned out that they were attacking a pavement starfish. Nice. I guess they must be fond of the chunks of carrot.
Oh, pigeons can't talk.
In that case, just observe the pigeons. I found a flock of flying rats last week absolutely going for something tasty on the ground, whilst ignoring a pile of bread rolls nearby.
It turned out that they were attacking a pavement starfish. Nice. I guess they must be fond of the chunks of carrot.
Ahhh, fresh air
I've had a few lunches at a pub recently (without beer unfortunately) and the days have been so nice, lunch has been had outside in the fresh air in a lovely courtyard.
That's where all the fucking smokers congregate of course. So we go out into the fresh air to get a lungfull of smoke.
Why can't we go back to the good old days where the smokers stayed inside and puffed away and those of us that didn't want to smell like an ashtray could enjoy the fresh air and sunshine?
The unintended consequences of putting safety nazi wankers into power.
That's where all the fucking smokers congregate of course. So we go out into the fresh air to get a lungfull of smoke.
Why can't we go back to the good old days where the smokers stayed inside and puffed away and those of us that didn't want to smell like an ashtray could enjoy the fresh air and sunshine?
The unintended consequences of putting safety nazi wankers into power.
Chocolate goldfish
Took the kids to the pool today. Just about damn near killed me as my head was splitting, but we went. Youngsters gotta have their splish-splash time.
We had about 20 minutes in the kiddy pool before all these bossy mums arrived and started turfing the kids out (I was the only dad there). Before long, we were almost the only ones in the pool. I asked one what was going on, and was told that someone had done a poo in the pool.
We bailed as well. A pool attendant turned up with a bag on a stick and started searching for the poo, mostly without success it seems. Some kids went to jump back in the pool, and he stopped them by saying, "Can't go in now kids - we're searching for chocolate goldfish".
That was a great line.
Someone asked him another question about the poo, and he replied, "Don't worry, it happens all the time".
Great. Just the kind of thing I wanted to know. I'd prefer that it was a once in a 10,000 year experience myself.
We had about 20 minutes in the kiddy pool before all these bossy mums arrived and started turfing the kids out (I was the only dad there). Before long, we were almost the only ones in the pool. I asked one what was going on, and was told that someone had done a poo in the pool.
We bailed as well. A pool attendant turned up with a bag on a stick and started searching for the poo, mostly without success it seems. Some kids went to jump back in the pool, and he stopped them by saying, "Can't go in now kids - we're searching for chocolate goldfish".
That was a great line.
Someone asked him another question about the poo, and he replied, "Don't worry, it happens all the time".
Great. Just the kind of thing I wanted to know. I'd prefer that it was a once in a 10,000 year experience myself.
Backpack
I have just watched a repeat of House (or more accurately, about 2 minutes of a repeat). At the end, it shows the cured doctor going back to Africa to do Good Deeds. He slings his backpack over the shoulder of his nice clean shirt, and he walks out to front the media.
There is no way on God's green earth that a backpack that has spent 5 years in Africa would look so shiny and new. At the very least, it should leave a smudge on a nice clean shirt. My favourite backpack was an Alice pack, which I finally threw out a few years ago.
It started life as a vibrant green, but after two weeks in the shrubbery, it was light brown (thanks to all the ingrained dirt, oil, food and grease) and it stayed that way for its entire life. I gave it a wash after every major exercise, but the dirt never came out. Ever. It also smelled - rancid food that had leaked, gun oil that had leaked, manky clothes that had lived in it and sweat that had leaked out of me and other unidentifiable smells. The only place it could live "back in civilisation" was in the garage. It was not a pack that was allowed in the house.
Why was it so filthy?
It was the only chair I had when in the scrub. I spent hours sitting on it. Or sitting on the ground and leaning up against it as a backrest.
At night, it was my pillow.
I used it as a table to eat off.
I'd wash my socks in the field and then hang them off the pack to dry.
In short, it was a nasty thing. Indispensable, but nasty nonetheless.
Which makes me wonder why you could supposedly live in Africa for years and have a backpack smelling of roses.
There is no way on God's green earth that a backpack that has spent 5 years in Africa would look so shiny and new. At the very least, it should leave a smudge on a nice clean shirt. My favourite backpack was an Alice pack, which I finally threw out a few years ago.
It started life as a vibrant green, but after two weeks in the shrubbery, it was light brown (thanks to all the ingrained dirt, oil, food and grease) and it stayed that way for its entire life. I gave it a wash after every major exercise, but the dirt never came out. Ever. It also smelled - rancid food that had leaked, gun oil that had leaked, manky clothes that had lived in it and sweat that had leaked out of me and other unidentifiable smells. The only place it could live "back in civilisation" was in the garage. It was not a pack that was allowed in the house.
Why was it so filthy?
It was the only chair I had when in the scrub. I spent hours sitting on it. Or sitting on the ground and leaning up against it as a backrest.
At night, it was my pillow.
I used it as a table to eat off.
I'd wash my socks in the field and then hang them off the pack to dry.
In short, it was a nasty thing. Indispensable, but nasty nonetheless.
Which makes me wonder why you could supposedly live in Africa for years and have a backpack smelling of roses.
Fire, as reported by Reuters
I have decided to launch a new career as a Reuters photographer. Here is my photo of the fire at a timber store on Monday, suitably enhanced in order to pass the strict Reuters editorial standards.
Caring for the environment - not
When it comes to things green and fluffy, I come down hard on the side of doing tangible things that yield worthwhile results for an unoutrageous cost. When I was a youngster, I took part in a tree planting program on Rottnest Island. The island, which is a favourite holiday destination for those living in Perth, had been pretty much denuded of trees by the time I was born. We didn't just plant the trees - we spent months growing them from seed, and we even spent time wandering around the bush collecting the seed.
I think I did it because it involved a free trip to Rottnest and a Saturday night getting on the turps - not bad when you are still a high school student. My two biggest memories of that weekend are of using wet-a-soil for the first time (it was a very new-fangled and completely unknown product back in the early 1980's) and running over a Quokka on my pushbike. I was returning from the pub with four cartons of beer and several bottles of port balanced on the handlebars when this suicidal little rodent ran out in front of me. I zigged, he zagged, and he went straight under the front wheel.
Understand that I was doing everything in my power to avoid the little bastard - the thought of smashing four cartons of beer into a million slivers of glass and foam was too awful to behold, especially since us poor students had pooled almost all our pocketmoney into buying that grog. If I busted that lot, there would be no more. So hitting the quokka was not deliberate, and the little bugger got up and ran away (limping slightly) after the wheel went over him. I weighed a lot less back then. If I ran one over today, his guts would have shot six feet out of his bum.
Oh, and if you think that binge drinking is a new thing, consider what it was like for 12 sixteen year olds to drink 4 cartons of Emu Export, plus several bottles of Tawny Port, plus the spirits that a few had managed to smuggle onto the island in their luggage. The adage "drink 'til you chuck" is one that I remember fondly.
Last time I looked (a few years ago), the trees had survived and were doing well. I guess a bushfire has since burnt them all to charcoal stumps.
Anyway - the environment.
This photo shows what one might call a "turd trap" on the canal that feeds into The Bay down Haberfield way. I call it a turd trap because it is a floating trap designed to catch all the crap that washes down the canal from points further west. (By crap, I mean plastic bags and other litter, not actual poo). As far as environmental measures go, I reckon its a beaut. We will be using our canoe on this body of water from now on, and I like to go paddling in water that is not full of shit - especially if there is a chance that I'll tip the bloody thing over. If I have to go swimming, I like to do so in a nice, clean environment.
There is just one flaw in this plan. The boom has broken loose from one shore, so it is no longer trapping anything. Crap is flowing down the canal and into The Bay.
It's been like this for a week or more, and no one seems to have noticed.
I'd prefer that we spent our time (and money) on things like this that deliver clear, noticeable benefits, rather than flim-flam like Earth Hour. I can tell when this thing is working - I stop the bike, look over the side of the bridge and take a gander at all the crap that has built up in the trap. I've even seen the little barge that they use to clean it turn up and empty it, and believe me, this thing catches a lot of crap.
This thing is worthwhile, it's beneficial and I presume it did not cost two arms and a leg. However, it also garners next to no publicity for those that built it and those who run it. They are the forgotten people. They are the unknowns who beaver away to give us a better world. Instead, publicity sluts like the WWF and the SMH run around boasting about what good work they are doing, when in reality, they are doing fuck all, except producing a lot of annoying hot air.
You want my respect? Try doing something worthwhile for once in your life, and then don't boast about it. If it's truly good, people will notice what you've done. Only utterly worthless things need a massive PR engine.
I think I did it because it involved a free trip to Rottnest and a Saturday night getting on the turps - not bad when you are still a high school student. My two biggest memories of that weekend are of using wet-a-soil for the first time (it was a very new-fangled and completely unknown product back in the early 1980's) and running over a Quokka on my pushbike. I was returning from the pub with four cartons of beer and several bottles of port balanced on the handlebars when this suicidal little rodent ran out in front of me. I zigged, he zagged, and he went straight under the front wheel.
Understand that I was doing everything in my power to avoid the little bastard - the thought of smashing four cartons of beer into a million slivers of glass and foam was too awful to behold, especially since us poor students had pooled almost all our pocketmoney into buying that grog. If I busted that lot, there would be no more. So hitting the quokka was not deliberate, and the little bugger got up and ran away (limping slightly) after the wheel went over him. I weighed a lot less back then. If I ran one over today, his guts would have shot six feet out of his bum.
Oh, and if you think that binge drinking is a new thing, consider what it was like for 12 sixteen year olds to drink 4 cartons of Emu Export, plus several bottles of Tawny Port, plus the spirits that a few had managed to smuggle onto the island in their luggage. The adage "drink 'til you chuck" is one that I remember fondly.
Last time I looked (a few years ago), the trees had survived and were doing well. I guess a bushfire has since burnt them all to charcoal stumps.
Anyway - the environment.
This photo shows what one might call a "turd trap" on the canal that feeds into The Bay down Haberfield way. I call it a turd trap because it is a floating trap designed to catch all the crap that washes down the canal from points further west. (By crap, I mean plastic bags and other litter, not actual poo). As far as environmental measures go, I reckon its a beaut. We will be using our canoe on this body of water from now on, and I like to go paddling in water that is not full of shit - especially if there is a chance that I'll tip the bloody thing over. If I have to go swimming, I like to do so in a nice, clean environment.
There is just one flaw in this plan. The boom has broken loose from one shore, so it is no longer trapping anything. Crap is flowing down the canal and into The Bay.
It's been like this for a week or more, and no one seems to have noticed.
I'd prefer that we spent our time (and money) on things like this that deliver clear, noticeable benefits, rather than flim-flam like Earth Hour. I can tell when this thing is working - I stop the bike, look over the side of the bridge and take a gander at all the crap that has built up in the trap. I've even seen the little barge that they use to clean it turn up and empty it, and believe me, this thing catches a lot of crap.
This thing is worthwhile, it's beneficial and I presume it did not cost two arms and a leg. However, it also garners next to no publicity for those that built it and those who run it. They are the forgotten people. They are the unknowns who beaver away to give us a better world. Instead, publicity sluts like the WWF and the SMH run around boasting about what good work they are doing, when in reality, they are doing fuck all, except producing a lot of annoying hot air.
You want my respect? Try doing something worthwhile for once in your life, and then don't boast about it. If it's truly good, people will notice what you've done. Only utterly worthless things need a massive PR engine.
Sunrises, fires and other things
These photos are all from Monday morning. I've been too busy or crook since to post anything.
Sunrise behind the city, as viewed from the Five Dock Bowling Club car park. Things sure is black out there.
Time lapse photo of my bike. More confirmation that it is black at 0640hrs.
About 10 minutes later - looking at the city over the waters of The Bay. Notice the tilt - I had to use a stake to hold the camera for a time lapse shot, and as is to be expected in a Labor dominated area, everything tilts to the Left.
A wierd shot of the UNSW Rowing Club, or is it a sailing club? It's too dark to tell. That blob towards the right is a roof of a building anyway. If you open this photo up in full size, a row of red dots appears in the distance. That's the Iron Cove Bridge.
View of cars travelling around the Citywest Link.
That smudge of black smoke is the start of a fire at a furniture shop down at Botany. By the time I got to work, 25 fire engines were working on it, and the plume of smoke was enormous.
This is about 2 minutes later - shot from the middle of the Anzac Bridge.
This is what the underside of the Anzac bridge looks like. I took this photo because the water was a really wierd colour at this time of the morning.
People are always sticking things of lamp posts around town, and the Council employs people to go around and clean all the crap off the posts. Here is one of the post crap cleaners in action. A job for life.
It's not terribly clear, but the smoke from that fire is visible at the end of the street in this shot. It was creepy seeing that smoke on Monday morning - my first thought was that a plane had gone in at the airport. Not a nice feeling.
Sunrise behind the city, as viewed from the Five Dock Bowling Club car park. Things sure is black out there.
Time lapse photo of my bike. More confirmation that it is black at 0640hrs.
About 10 minutes later - looking at the city over the waters of The Bay. Notice the tilt - I had to use a stake to hold the camera for a time lapse shot, and as is to be expected in a Labor dominated area, everything tilts to the Left.
A wierd shot of the UNSW Rowing Club, or is it a sailing club? It's too dark to tell. That blob towards the right is a roof of a building anyway. If you open this photo up in full size, a row of red dots appears in the distance. That's the Iron Cove Bridge.
View of cars travelling around the Citywest Link.
That smudge of black smoke is the start of a fire at a furniture shop down at Botany. By the time I got to work, 25 fire engines were working on it, and the plume of smoke was enormous.
This is about 2 minutes later - shot from the middle of the Anzac Bridge.
This is what the underside of the Anzac bridge looks like. I took this photo because the water was a really wierd colour at this time of the morning.
People are always sticking things of lamp posts around town, and the Council employs people to go around and clean all the crap off the posts. Here is one of the post crap cleaners in action. A job for life.
It's not terribly clear, but the smoke from that fire is visible at the end of the street in this shot. It was creepy seeing that smoke on Monday morning - my first thought was that a plane had gone in at the airport. Not a nice feeling.
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